


i'd meet you where the spirit meets the bones

by limerental



Series: Yenralt Valentines [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Captive Geralt, Court Mage Yennefer, F/M, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mild Book Spoilers, Yennefer Goes to Nilfgaard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: Yennefer, once court mage of Nilfgaard, now risen to serve as regent to the young Empress, is gifted a naked and abused Witcher in chains.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Yenralt Valentines [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136729
Comments: 7
Kudos: 89
Collections: A Very Yenralt Valentine





	i'd meet you where the spirit meets the bones

**Author's Note:**

> **content warning** for mild book spoilers that i'm sure everyone already knows, brief referenced/implied noncon assault of Geralt by his captors, reference to Yennefer's past suicide attempt
> 
> yeah that's another tswift lyric be quiet

It is fortunate that the Witcher is brought into the throne room on a day when the young Empress is occupied with other courtly tasks and her court mage alone is minding the daily chore of taking audience with the public.

The Witcher is fully naked and chained at his throat and arms and ankles, shuffling awkwardly as his captors tug and corral him, pulling forward sharply when he reaches the base of the throne so that he is forced to drop to his knees and bow to her. His milk-white hair falls to cover his face and brushes against the stone floor. The plane of his back is pock-marked with old scars, but some wounds ooze fresh, the places where he is cuffed burning raw and red.

Yennefer wishes to scold the men who have brought him here, for even for the North, such cruelty and crassness is uncommon, but she holds her tongue. She may be young Cirilla’s regent and main advisor, but there are many in her court and elsewhere who are not fond of her. Some still call her the Usurper, even after the exposure of Emhyr’s cruel plans and corruption. She must show some decorum here and not refuse a gift so openly.

“A tribute,” says one of his captors with a sneer, “for the Empress. He’s bound to her, they say. By the Law of Surprise.”

Yennefer knows him at once.

“The White Wolf,” she says with interest as she rises to stride down the stairs. “Let him up.” His captors respond by tugging him up by the chains until his face is visible to her, his arms straining as he struggles to keep the cuff at his throat from choking him. Despite the restraints and the moniker and the brutality shown to him, his cool amber eyes are not those of an animal. “Not like that, you fools. Some slack. Now.”

The Witcher sags and nearly drops forward again as the chains loosen but manages to catch himself even as his muscles tremble.

“Figured you’d like him,” continues the irritating sneering man. “Sure you can find some _use_ for him. He’s proven himself mighty useful already.”

Yennefer greatly dislikes the implications of that and levels the man with an unimpressed look.

Since her appointment here in Nilfgaard’s court as a girl, she has come to learn that self-important men like this abound in places of power the Continent over. For all that the South is slandered as barbaric and backwards, the North teems just as full of putrid wastes of space who think themselves clever and strong for their common abuses of those they see as beneath them.

Given her unfortunate childhood as the crooked daughter of a peasant farmer, it should not have been much of a surprise. Yennefer had had brief, naive hope that in a world full of magic and court intrigue, things would be different. Not so. Even had she gone to Aedirn’s court as she initially planned and not been betrayed and out-maneuvered by her fellows, she would have found it to be no different. She had been forced to accept the less desirable position in Nilfgaard, but had she chosen a different path, she would have encountered the same sort of dull and tedious men surrounding her.

The amber gaze of the Witcher is sharp and clear. She has the feeling that he is not tedious. That there is nothing dull about him.

“Bring him to my chambers,” she says, waving a hand, “and tell the rest to come again tomorrow. I am done here for the day.”

She detests the knowing gleam in the eyes of the Witcher’s captors and turns aside so she does not have to look as he is dragged up and away. It takes longer than she would like to finish the formal closing of the day’s audience, saying her expected lines with an impatient air as she sprawls in the throne and finally sighing as the massive doors to the room are winched slowly closed and sealed.

What she finds when she finally hurries to her chambers is the poor Witcher stretched out and bound tight to the four posts of her bedframe with limbs spread. He does not look around as the door closes behind her, his gaze stuck on the ceiling.

Her first instinct is to wave a hand and release the cuffs, but she does not truly know how the Witcher will react. He could be as dangerous as they say or act foolishly in desperation. She would do the same in his position. Anyone, man or beast, would be well within their rights to be ruthless and dangerous when given a chance for freedom.

His mind is carefully guarded and impenetrable without some effort, and she finds she does not wish to violate him more than he already has been. Instead, she strides across the room and unfolds a spare blanket to cover his modesty as she sits on the edge of the bed. The way he is restrained, he could not possibly be a threat to her, but she still sits well away from him.

“Your name is Geralt, correct?” she asks, as gently as she dares. “Geralt of Rivia?”

His gaze drops from the ceiling to look at her, wary, and finally nods.

“You were bound to Cirilla before her birth,” she continues, “after saving the life of her father.”

“Yeah,” says the Witcher, voice a low rasp. She cannot say if it is disuse that distorts his voice or if he ordinarily sounds that way.

“Yet, even bound to the Crown Princess of Cintra and Nilfgaard, you did not seek to claim her. You disappeared, existing only as a fairytale figure sung in tavern songs. Why? Why not come to retrieve her?”

“Didn’t want to,” he says, grimacing when his attempts at a shrug pulls the taut muscles of his restrained shoulders. “Couldn’t stomach... chaining her to me.”

She realizes when his dry lips twitch into a wry smile, blood oozing from a swollen split, that he has just told a joke.

“Very funny,” says Yennefer. “I don’t plan to keep you bound. Forgive me, but the chains must stay a while longer. Until I know better what sort of man you are.”

“Not a man,” says the Witcher.

“You bleed and bruise like one, and you haven’t yet tried to tear out my throat. You don’t act like a trapped animal.”

“Could be biding my time.”

“Only men make plans,” she says. “A beast would gnaw at their chains until they were free.”

“Maybe I’m just a lazy beast,” he says. “Can’t see the point. I’m shackled either way.”

“Every road will lead back to the girl,” says Yennefer as she watches him carefully. “Destiny.”

“Tired of running from it.”

He sounds tired in more ways than one. She wonders how long it has been since he was allowed to sleep. It is a wonder that he remains conscious now, given that he must be feeling a great deal of pain.

“I’m sorry for what has been done to you.” His brow crumples, and his golden eyes search her face. She doubts anyone has ever said such a thing to him. “Beasts could never know the cruelty that men indulge in freely.”

“Guess so.” His voice rumbles as he looks at her with fresh wariness. Her gentleness has made him more uneasy than if she had done what his captors expected of her.

It would have been no true hardship. He is beautiful, body sculpted of cool marble and well-endowed. His eyelashes are long and pure white, his jawline handsome, his mouth full and red. If Yennefer were a very different woman, she could spell him compliant with a word and take anything she wanted.

But she could request the same of any man across the Continent and find them scrambling in great numbers for the privilege of bedding her, though very few, if any, would peak her interest. She is not interested in being seen as a conquest or, more accurately, in being seen at all. So many look only at her body, molded as clay in Aretuza's kiln, or at her title and power, the lone mage who toppled an Empire.

None have ever looked at her the way the Witcher does as she waves a hand to dissolve the chains that bind him. He grunts in pain as he tries to move his limbs, the muscles shivering.

“Hush,” she says, daring to reach to touch his flank. He flinches back and winces when the sudden movement inspires further pain. “Lie still. I can prepare you a bath if you would like. I would suggest it.” Her nose wrinkles. “You reek.”

“Why are you doing this?” the Witcher asks. When she touches him again, this time on his forearm just above the chafed skin where the cuff sat he does not flinch. “I thought you said I could be dangerous.”

“I don’t think so,” says Yennefer. “A Witcher is dangerous to monsters, certainly. Your captors included. But I don’t think you’ll hurt me.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

She brushes her fingertips along the raw edges of the wounds at his wrists. Carefully, she presents the underside of her own wrist, the ragged scars self-inflicted by a broken mirror long ago clearly visible. His rough fingers twitch around the slender shape of her wrist, thumb touching the proof of her own desperate grasp at freedom.

Yennefer was unsuccessful then and, with hindsight, is glad for it. To live on to become someone better, kinder, more powerful, spites and shames her captors more than her death ever could.

“Mmm, because I’ve freed you,” she hums. “And because I know that captivity was what made me dangerous. Be honest. When did you last feel happy, when you felt trapped?”

He does not answer, but by the dampness that glistens in his eyes, he does not need to.

She shushes him and dares to lean close, her fingertips spread across his cheek to catch the tears. It is said a Witcher does not feel pain or emotion, cannot cry, and cannot blush, but here this one is doing each in turn as she tips his chin up and presses her lips to his.

It is a kiss with no demands or expectations, but even as Geralt breathes a sigh against her mouth and gives to her, Yennefer feels their fates intertwine.


End file.
